


Compulsion

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Rope Bondage, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-04-12 06:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19126354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "'As long as it gets you into bed with me, I’ll let you do anything you want with me, Ja’far.'" Ja'far puts his ropes to a better use than violence.





	Compulsion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shiny_Pichu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_Pichu/gifts).



“This can’t be necessary,” Sinbad observes from where Ja’far directed him to lie across the sheets of the king’s bed. He doesn’t sound upset or even particularly impatient; the greatest tone in his voice beyond the heat that always seems to purr just under the surface is amusement, and that much closer to outright laughter than Ja’far usually lets it rise. “If you want me to hold still all you have to do is ask.”

“I know,” Ja’far says without looking up from what he’s doing. Sinbad is a distraction at the best of times, even fully wrapped in the opulence that marks his grandest affairs of state; as he is right now, with nothing to cover the whole expanse of his body but the spill of dark hair under his shoulders, Ja’far isn’t sure he’ll be able to bring his attention back to bear on his self-appointed task if he once gives it up. It requires his attention in any case, he tells himself as he draws the cord around to wind another loop around Sinbad’s outstretched ankle, and at least his limited focus keeps him from more distraction than what vivid red ropes against sunkissed tan can offer. “That’s why I asked.” He risks a glance sideways through the reassuring weight of his hair in front of his eyes. “Do you want to take back your agreement?”

Sinbad shakes his head immediately. He looks entirely at his ease, as he has in every setting in which Ja’far has seen him; the fact of his present nudity seems rather to increase his self-confidence than diminish it, and the red cord Ja’far has drawn to bind his wrists together over his head looks an affectation of fashion instead of the half-playful, half-sincere restraint Ja’far means it to be. The smile Sinbad gives him is just as absent any indication of strain, and when he tips his head he manages to cast the expression into something indulgent and affectionate.

“No,” he says. “As long as it gets you into bed with me, I’ll let you do anything you want, Ja’far.”

Ja’far snorts. “You make it sound like I’m a coy maiden,” he says, and pulls the cord around Sinbad’s leg a little tighter than it was as he twists it to a knot. “As if you don’t take advantage of me whenever your royal whim strikes.”

“I did before my whim was anything like royal, too,” Sinbad says. Ja’far gives him a flat look at this variety of agreement and Sinbad grins at him without any indication of self-consciousness in his handsome features. “Are you going to try to tell me you don’t enjoy it, Ja’far?”

“Certainly not,” Ja’far says, and draws his hand away from the knot he’s just tied so he can turn his back on Sinbad and slide off the end of the bed to stand at the foot of the mattress. He smoothes his clothes back into order, brushing out the creases in his overrobe and running fingers through his hair to urge it towards the most elegance he can find without his usual keffiyeh. “Only that I intend to enjoy this as well.” He slides his hands into his sleeves to hide whatever giveaway trembling fingers may offer, and it’s only then that he turns to look back to the bed.

It is a large bed. Ja’far knows that from more than enough personal experience with the same; it can hold the both of them in perfect comfort, could let them sleep the night out without ever finding each other in the expanse of the silk-sleek sheets, if either of them ever had an inclination for such isolation. It should dwarf anyone upon it, as surely as the ocean ought to dwarf even the largest ship; and yet Sinbad sprawls across the length and width, seeming so comfortable it’s hard to imagine he could ever fit into less space. His arms are up over his head, his forearms bound together by deliberately spaced loops of the red cord that Ja’far can use for attack or restraint as need determines; his bent elbows make a frame for his head, where he’s lying atop one of the overlarge pillows and gazing at Ja’far with eyes so dark they hardly need the assistance of the shadow lining them to prickle sensation down the length of Ja’far’s spine. Both his legs are spread out over the rumpled sheets beneath him, angled into easy comfort in spite of the restraints bound tight around each ankle to hold his feet apart and strip him of the ability to turn over or down in pursuit of friction for the arousal swelling half-hard as if coaxed there just by the feel of Ja’far’s cords against the other’s skin.

“So what do you intend to do, Ja’far?” Sinbad’s voice is loud in the quiet of the room, enough to pull Ja’far’s attention back to the other’s face from where it had wandered. He’s smiling again, his lips curving onto what looks a little like amusement once more, but there’s more heat than laughter in his gaze, and when his thigh flexes to pull against the cord binding his ankle Ja’far can see the resistance run up the other’s leg and flush his cock hotter at his hips. “I’m your prisoner to do with as you will.”

Ja’far looks up to meet Sinbad’s heavy-lidded gaze with a raised eyebrow. “I wouldn’t call this imprisonment. It hardly counts when you could get yourself free in less than a minute if you wanted to.”

“How would I do that?” Sinbad wants to know. “You took all my Djinn away, Ja’far. Without my Equips I’m no more than just another man.”

Ja’far scoffs in the back of his throat. “You’ve never been just another man, Sin.” Sinbad’s sultry smile says he was expecting if not outright looking forward to this answer; Ja’far huffs and turns away again, pulling his attention from the draw of Sinbad’s bare skin with more effort in truth than he hopes is visible to Sinbad himself. “Occupy yourself for a few minutes while I get ready.”

“As you command,” Sinbad teases. Ja’far doesn’t look around to see the grin he can hear on the other’s voice; partially because he knows that self-satisfied smirk too well already, and mostly because he’s not sure that he’ll be able to keep his measured distance if he looks back and sees Sinbad sprawled into languid comfort with Ja’far’s own ropes winding scarlet paths around his ankles and wrists. So he keeps himself turned away, keeps his attention on what he’s doing as he unfastens his robes so he can slide the weight free of his shoulders and down his arms. He feels strangely light without the usual burden of his clothes at his shoulders and draping over his arms; the weight of his hair swings forward when he moves to fold his robes and set them aside, falling into his face as if to explore the freedom of motion now granted to the rest of his body as well.

“You look good.” The voice comes from over Ja’far’s shoulder, where Sinbad is presumably still tied down to the bed; Ja’far tenses and almost turns before he catches himself. “I’m so used to seeing you all dressed up, I forget what a little thing you actually are.”

Ja’far ducks his head to fix his attention on the buttons of his undershirt as he undoes them with careful intention. “Call me little again and you’ll find out just how dangerous those ropes around you are, Sin.”

Sinbad laughs. “Is that a promise?” The bedsheets shift, sliding as Sinbad moves against them; Ja’far unfastens the last of his buttons and reaches to pull his shirt up and over his head, carefully not thinking about how Sinbad is moving against his restraints, or the way his body must be pulling to taut grace against the ropes around his wrists. The shirt he drops to the floor with far less care than he showed for his robes before moving on to unfasten the ties holding his thin pants around his hips. “It might be worth the fallout just to get your attention back on me.”

Ja’far loosens the last of the ties and lets his clothes fall free so he can step out of them and toe them to join his undershirt. “Don’t be stupid, Sin,” he says. “You know you always have my attention.” And he turns back around at last, giving in to the urge to fix his focus on Sinbad behind him at the same time he offers the view of his own body for the other’s ever-greedy gaze.

Sinbad is lounging across the sheets behind him. His bonds are still in place, his hands and legs as relaxed as if he never tested the strength of the knots Ja’far put into the vivid rope; the only thing that has changed about his position is the tilt of his head, where he’s turned in to pillow his head at one upraised arm so he can fix the attention of his gaze on Ja’far at the side of the room. His lips are still curving onto that lingering smile, his lashes are still dark over his gaze; there’s enough raw heat in his expression for Ja’far to feel the shudder of it down the entirety of his spine, as if Sinbad has reached out over the distance between them to press a casual touch as close against the other’s soul as he did in their first fight, when Ja’far offered allegiance instead of violence to the man he was sent to kill before finding himself entirely possessed instead. It’s a years-distant thought, as far off as the life Ja’far used to lead, when he followed no one but his own ill-advised choices, but the feeling of it is as close now as ever, that sense of being overcome by no more than the conviction in a pair of bright eyes as clear in this breath as on that far-distant day.

Sinbad’s smile goes wider, spreading across his face with the same unwavering self-confidence that he has always carried, that spills from him even stripped to bare skin and bound to a bed. He lifts his head and tilts his chin to the side, making a summons of the gesture even while his hands are laced together over the top of his head. “Come here, Ja’far.”

Ja’far huffs, a sighing exhale of resignation; and he steps forward, and he obeys. Sinbad watches him with no indication of surprise in his face as he considers the other’s approach; there’s just appreciation in his expression, dark in the weight of his eyes trailing along Ja’far’s skin and set into the considering shape of his lips. Ja’far can feel himself flushing, can feel the heat of self-consciousness as much as arousal blooming pale pink across his chest and under the freckles marking his cheekbones, but he keeps his mouth set and keeps moving, approaching the bed as if drawn on the line of Sinbad’s attention. Sinbad shifts as Ja’far comes up to the edge, rocking his hips against the mattress as if he’s already anticipating supporting the weight of the other’s body over him, and it’s then that Ja’far turns to pace around the end of the bed rather than climbing up onto it. Sinbad huffs a breath, sounding as startled as Ja’far has heard him in recent memory, and Ja’far lets his lips curve towards a smile of his own as he continues past the bed and to the other side of the room.

“Ja’far,” Sinbad says, his voice jumping towards the edge of protest as Ja’far continues to move away from him. Ja’far can hear him shift against the bed in a rustle of sheets, can hear the weight of the frame creak with the flex of Sinbad pulling against the restraints binding him in place; he doesn’t turn, but Sinbad’s groan of frustration speaks clearly enough to the efficacy of Ja’far’s work to glow the warmth of satisfaction all across the other’s skin. “What are you doing?”

“Disobeying you,” Ja’far says with the crisp edge of sincerity on his voice. “Have you become so unaccustomed to it that you don’t recognize the signs?”

Sinbad hisses past his teeth. For a moment Ja’far wonders if he’s truly angry, if impatience has dragged itself into irritation in his chest; but then there’s a ripple of laughter, low and radiant with amusement, and Ja’far can feel the knot of anticipation in his belly pull tighter just around the sound of Sinbad’s laugh.

“Fair enough,” Sinbad says. The bed shifts with the weight of a body falling across it; Ja’far can imagine the sprawl of Sinbad giving himself over to the support of the mattress beneath him without turning to see the truth of it. “Fine then. What do you have to do that is important enough that you’re willing to turn your back on me while I’m tied up and at your mercy?”

“Preparation,” Ja’far says as he reaches into one of the heavy chest of drawers to lay hands to the narrow bottle tucked into one of the shadowy corners. “Which you never seem to bother to think about.”

“Because I know I have you to take care of it for me.” Sinbad’s voice is still clinging to the afterimage of laugher; Ja’far can feel the weight of it hanging humid in the air and pressing to his skin as close as a touch sliding gentle over him. “You should think of it as a compliment that I trust your skills so much, Ja’far.”

“I know you do.” Ja’far pushes the drawer shut again with more force than it demands. “Respecting my abilities is the very least you can do, after all the help I’ve been to you all these years. You would be lost without me.”

“I know I would,” Sinbad says. His voice is still low, still purring in the back of his throat, but the laughter is drifting towards a caress, now, so clearly affectionate that Ja’far can feel his spine curve in answer to it, can feel his toes flex against the floor in involuntary response. The sheets shift again, rustling as Sinbad moves against them. “Turn around, Ja’far.”

Ja’far turns. He thinks about refusing just for the show of it; but there’s a certainty of obedience in Sinbad’s voice, now, and any attempt to resist would be no more than petty, when Ja’far was already intending to return across the distance between himself and the bed. Sinbad is still sprawling over the sheets, looking as much at his ease as is possible under the circumstances of being very lacking in both clothing and freedom of movement, but his gaze is far from languid, gaining shadows of focus in time with the flush of his cock swelling hotter at his hips. Ja’far can feel the weight of it sliding over his skin as clearly as if Sinbad were pressing his mouth to map the curves and angles of his body, until by the time the other’s gaze has traced down to his hips Ja’far’s cock is flushed as hard as Sinbad’s own.

“Ja’far,” Sinbad says in a voice that is better defined as a purr than anything else. “I want you.”

There’s an implicit command on that statement, an expectation of satisfied desire so innate Sinbad doesn’t bother to put words to it. Ja’far stands still, keeping his feet planted on the floor without tipping into surrender to the pull he can feel in the lowest point of his belly as if to tug him bodily across the floor. He lifts his chin instead, tilting his head into put-upon arrogance as he lifts his hands before him.

“I’m sure you do,” he says tartly. Sinbad’s lashes dip, his gaze jumps back to Ja’far’s face, but Ja’far only meets the surprise in his wide eyes for a moment before looking away as if the latent desire in his king’s face is of no particular import. He watches his hands instead, careful in spilling out oil from the bottle he retrieved to coat his fingers and palm without dripping to excess at the floor so he can close the stopper once more and turn to place the bottle back where it belongs. Sinbad is still staring at him, Ja’far can feel the heat of the other’s eyes tracking his motion, but even after replacing the bottle he doesn’t look up from the deliberate consideration he’s giving to the shift of his slick fingers against each other. “You’re just going to have to be patient, Sin.”

Sinbad’s laugh ripples out to fill the whole expanse of the bedroom with the ocean-waves of his amusement. “You want this as much as I do.”

Ja’far snorts. “I’m hardly denying my own desires,” he says, and lifts his head to look to the bed instead of Sinbad’s expression as he comes forward. There’s some indication of strain asserting itself in the other’s body, a flexing at his thighs and a tension in the muscles of his stomach, but Ja’far’s crimson ropes are still holding steady, not even straining to keep Sinbad in place. Ja’far reaches to brace himself at the edge of the bed with his dry hand so he can steady himself in kneeling against the give of the mattress, some inches distant from pressing against the sun-darkened bronze of Sinbad’s skin. Sinbad’s legs work, straining at the sheets to rock his hips up, but the motion is so minimal Ja’far thinks it’s more reflex than intentional. Ja’far lifts his chin into put-upon composure as he shifts his knees apart to brace himself at the bed.

“I’m going to get exactly what I want out of you, Sin-sama.” And he reaches out to wrap his oil-slick fingers around the solid heat of Sinbad’s cock. Sinbad groans at once, his head angling back against the sheets beneath him with none of the self-consciousness someone else might feel in the moment; there’s no restraint in the shudder that runs through his body from the angle of his shoulders down to the taut line of his calves. His hips jerk up, gaining an inch of height to press his cock in against the grip of Ja’far’s hold, and Ja’far tightens his fingers to claim the rhythm of his movement back from Sinbad’s willful action. He strokes over Sinbad deliberately, working the slick at his palm along the other’s shaft and pressing slippery heat up over the dark curve of the head without hesitating over the resonance of Sinbad’s breathing pulling into appreciative strain in his throat, and then, just as Sinbad is starting to relax against the bed in surrender to Ja’far’s movement, he lets his hand go to draw away again.

Sinbad groans. “ _Ja’far_.”

“You let me tie you up,” Ja’far reminds him as he slides his legs apart and rocks up over his knees instead of his calves. His bracing hand remains splayed at the sheets, his shoulder flexing to hold himself steady at the soft of the mattress while he reaches past his hot-flushed cock and between his thighs so he can press slippery fingers against the tension of his entrance. “Did you really think I wasn’t going to press that advantage, Sin?” He glances up through the fall of his hair to meet the storm of Sinbad’s gaze on him. “You know me too well for that.”

Sinbad’s eyes are dark, his gaze half-lidded to shadows that are hard to define as frustration or arousal; there’s something of both in them, a promise of fast-fraying patience and an insatiable desire that runs soul-deep through the man bound to the bed before Ja’far. Ja’far knows that expression, has seen it in Sinbad’s eyes when facing a new dungeon or a foreign country; to have it turned on him in its fullest form is enough to tense his thighs on heat even as he slides a slick finger up and into himself. He had meant to take his time, to take fullest advantage of Sinbad’s present situation to delay until the other is desperate from impatience; but Ja’far finds his heart speeding under the weight of those eyes, finds his body responding as readily to Sinbad’s attention as his own, until the pressure of his touch inside himself feels hardly enough even with his efforts barely begun.

“I do know you,” Sinbad says, and his voice is as dark as his eyes, heavy as smoke and rich as wine. He’s not pulling at the restraints at his arms, isn’t straining at the ropes knotted around his ankles, but there is tension through the whole of his body, a coiling spring drawn tight on anticipation. Ja’far would appreciate it, would admire the curve of Sinbad’s thighs and the strain of muscle along the lines of his shoulders and down the sides of his chest, except that Sinbad is still holding his gaze, and there is no more choice for Ja’far to look away than there is for him to slow the movement of his hand where he’s working himself open. “Ja’far.” Sinbad tilts his chin down, angling his face so his gaze lingers in the shadows of his lashes and a lock of long hair slides forward over his features. “I know what you want.”

Ja’far presses his mouth tight over the breath that wants to escape him, that wants to unfurl itself into a groan to more clearly answer Sinbad’s claim. He lifts his chin instead, tossing his head to urge his hair back from his face as he eases his weight back, pulling away from the allure of Sinbad’s attention instead of leaning in towards it as if he’s testing the limits of his own bonds in turn. “I hope so,” is what he offers, speaking in a crisp tone instead of the breathless whimper that his racing heart is urging him to, that the length of his cock straining towards his stomach is pleading for. “I don’t intend to let you up until you’ve entirely satisfied me.”

“I will,” Sinbad says at once. “I’ll give you everything you want, Ja’far.”

Ja’far arches an eyebrow with as much elegance as he can muster from the melting heat suffusing his body and staining pink over his cheeks. “That’s a bold claim.” He presses up into himself, testing the limits of his body as far as his touch will allow before sliding his fingers free and rising up onto his knees at the bed alongside Sinbad. “Maybe you should temper your promises, Sin-sama.”

“There’s no need,” Sinbad tells him. Ja’far reaches to brace his slick hand against Sinbad’s chest to steady himself as he draws closer and brings a knee up to straddle the other’s body; Sinbad’s hot under his touch, his heart pounding hard under Ja’far’s palm, but he stays still, too restrained or too expectant to struggle for what minor motion he can win from the ropes binding him. “I’ll do what I say I will.” He’s still looking at Ja’far when the other glances up at his face; there’s no shift in the dark of his eyes, no flicker in the certain set of his mouth. “Are you doubting me now?”

Ja’far shakes his head. “No.” He tightens his knees against Sinbad’s hips, presses hard against the hand steady at the other’s chest. “I believe in you, Sin-sama.” And he rocks back to press himself down onto the waiting heat of Sinbad’s cock. Sinbad’s lashes dip, his chin lifts to tilt his face up to the illumination of the light as a groan rises from under the press of Ja’far’s hand, but Ja’far’s attention to the details of his vision is hazing, slipping free of his fingers as rapidly as he lowers himself onto Sinbad’s length. Their bodies are slick, the motion made smooth by Ja’far’s work with the oil over Sinbad and within himself, but in the first moment of coming together the pressure is still so keen as to strip the strength from his shoulders and drop his head heavy with inattention. His hair falls over his face, his lips part over the gasp of his breathing; if his eyes are open he’s not paying attention to his sight, not focused on anything but the feel of Sinbad sliding up to fill the space made by the work of his fingers. Ja’far feels himself tighten, his body responding on instinct to the pressure forcing him wider as he moves, but he only rocks forward fractionally before pushing back again, acting on a desperate need as keen as the strain in his body. He takes Sinbad into him, fitting himself onto the heat of the other’s desire; and then his thighs press to the top of Sinbad’s, his body comes flush with the radiant heat of the other’s, and Ja’far pauses to gasp breath from the moment of he and Sinbad coming together.

There’s a breath of quiet between them. Ja’far can feel his heart racing as he blinks his vision back towards clarity, as he pulls himself into the reality of the moment of Sinbad beneath him, bound to stillness while Ja’far moves himself onto the heat of the other’s cock. Sinbad is taut against the restraints, his arms flexing at the cords and his legs pulling until Ja’far can feel the muscles tight against the weight of his own, but Ja’far fixed the knots in place with full awareness of Sinbad’s strength, and the ropes don’t so much as shift even with the pressure of Sinbad’s rising desire pitted against them. He’s held still, bound to lie flat against the sheets of the bed while Ja’far collects himself with languid slowness, fits himself back into the present of kneeling over Sinbad with the heat of the other’s arousal aching within him, before he lifts his gaze from the brace of his hand at Sinbad’s chest to meet the other’s gaze instead.

Sinbad’s eyes are dark, as heavy-shadowed as Ja’far has ever seen them. What color there is in the irises is all but swallowed up by the wide-blown shadow of his pupils filled with the intensity that Sinbad puts into his gaze when he’s truly fixated on something. He hasn’t looked away, has lost none of the focus of his attention to the heat of Ja’far sliding down onto him; he seems rather the more clear in his goal, as if he has discarded all other distractions to give himself completely to the attention of this present moment.

“Ja’far,” he says, his voice dragging in his chest as if it’s taking on the resonance of his Djinn Equip, fleshed out into the full weight of his power even limited by the presently human form of his body beneath Ja’far’s. His heels dig in to the bed, his thighs tense to work up, and Ja’far tightens around him, his body clenching on involuntary pressure as Sinbad rocks himself up to urge greater friction from the fit of his cock within Ja’far. Sinbad’s lashes dip, his chin angles down. “Move.”

Ja’far leans in, pressing hard at his hand against Sinbad’s chest until the other falls back to the bed, his breath straining under the weight of the other’s touch. There’s still no easing of his attention, no hesitation in his expression; he meets Ja’far’s eyes with as much steel-edged resolve as ever, as willing to stand behind this particular order as any of the others he has had occasion to give.

“I will,” Ja’far says, and brings first one and then the other foot up to hook his ankles over Sinbad’s thighs, catching his weight atop the other’s body so he can force Sinbad back down to the sheets from the upward tilt he has found for himself against the minor give of the restraints. Sinbad falls back, giving way from necessity more than surrender, but it’s enough that he does give way, lying flat over the bed while Ja’far rocks back to hold him there and balance over his shins instead of against his hand. He lifts his chin into the light, letting the illumination catch his features into haughty self-assurance even if the color staining his cheeks and dark at his cock provides the lie to that as fast as he attempts it. “Just lie still and be patient, Sin.” Sinbad makes a sound in the back of his throat, so deep in his chest that it’s hard for Ja’far to identify it as a growl of protest or the start of a deep-down rumble of amusement, but Ja’far is moving without waiting for confirmation, and as he rocks up to slide off Sinbad’s cock before taking the other back into him again Sinbad’s response shifts in his throat to pull into a groan of pleasure instead. His lashes dip, his lips part on heat, and that’s all Ja’far can spare attention for before he’s moving again, letting his own patience give way to the demands of desire and the opportunity of Sinbad spread out for Ja’far’s personal use.

It’s difficult to restrain himself. Ja’far had intended to take his time, to linger over the rhythm of working himself onto Sinbad’s length until he worked the sweat of desperation across the other’s forehead and brought pleas of heat toppling from his lips. But Ja’far is too hot himself, his cock stiff at his hips and aching with barely-restrained need, and each stroke back to sink himself onto Sinbad’s length just seems to tighten the edge of his want to a still greater point. He pins Sinbad down to the bed beneath him, holding the other still as much with the application of his body weight as by the knots he tied around the other’s arms and legs before they began, and when he moves it’s with selfish urgency, with no more thought in his head than seeking out the fullest expression of his own pleasure from the heat filling him and Sinbad sprawled beneath him. Sinbad is trembling with arousal, the whole length of his body drawn taut and straining everywhere Ja’far feels him, but Ja’far just fixes the brace of his knees close against the other’s hips, and rocks himself back and onto Sinbad’s cock, and pants for air against the rising tide of heat climbing his spine to strain in his shoulders where he’s bracing himself against Sinbad’s chest.

Sinbad is hardly unaffected, for all his present immobility. The strain of his cock inside Ja’far is proof enough of his continued arousal, if Ja’far really needed the reassurance, but his breathing is rasping loud on heat as well, straining as taut in his chest as his arms and legs are pulling Ja’far’s ropes holding the other still. Sinbad’s thighs quiver under the weight of Ja’far’s legs pinning him down, the lean muscle straining as if trying to break free with each downward stroke Ja’far takes to sink himself onto his cock, and his heart is pounding heavy-hard against Ja’far’s palm flat at his chest. He doesn’t speak aloud, doesn’t offer coherency to coax or urge Ja’far into action, but his gaze is fixed on Ja’far over him, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded to speak with as much eloquence as the force of his eyes has ever brought. It’s impossible to look away, unimaginable to so much as turn his head; Ja’far just stares at Sinbad, gazing straight into the shadows of barely-restrained want as he holds Sinbad down and takes from him what he wants. His heart is pounding, his breath catching sharp and desperate in his chest, and when he lifts his hand where he’s bracing himself up it’s with very little conscious thought, as if he’s being guided by the heat in his veins instead of any rational logic. He rocks his weight back, tipping himself over his knees to press heavy to Sinbad’s hips, and then he reaches down for himself, curling his fingers to a grip around his cock so he can stroke up and over the length.

Sinbad reacts at once, as soon as Ja’far’s fingers have closed to draw his body taut with the pressure of sensation coursing through him. His thighs flex, his body jolting upwards as if intending to knock Ja’far off-balance from where he’s pressing to the other’s weight, but with their present position all Sinbad’s motion achieves is to rock his cock deeper into Ja’far over him. Ja’far shudders involuntarily, as responsive to the heat of Sinbad’s body moving in him as to the stroke of his own fingers working a well-practiced rhythm over himself, and when he shifts it is to lean back into the curve of his spine, to sink Sinbad deeper into himself as he tighten reflexively around the other. Sinbad groans, his breath rattling in the depths of his chest, but Ja’far doesn’t look down at him; his gaze is sliding up, trailing along the line of the wall to drift over the ceiling as his head tips back and his throat tightens on the moan of heat in his chest. His body is straining, his thighs and his shoulders and his chest all drawing taut as heat knots within him with each stroke of his hand, and beneath him Sinbad is still held tight, fixed immobile, unable to do anything but watch Ja’far seek out his own pleasure over him. The thought is thrilling in itself, enough to catch Ja’far’s breathing and tighten his balls, and then, from the bed:

“ _Ja’far_ ,” Sinbad groans, sounding as agonized as if it’s his own orgasm straining at the cusp of breaking through Ja’far’s body, and Ja’far jerks and gasps and comes, spilling hot over his fingers and striping over Sinbad’s chest. Sinbad makes a rough, incoherent noise, his hips jerking up with force enough to rock Ja’far forward and nearly falling, but Ja’far just curls in, throwing a hand out to splay at Sinbad’s chest and brace himself as he shudders through the force of pleasure breaking over him. He strokes hard over himself, easing the strain of anticipation into the quivering heat of relief as his orgasm rushes through and past him, and finally he’s left panting heat over Sinbad’s tight-wound body, his shoulders shaking and cock softening and thoughts distant and dizzy with heat. For a breath Ja’far stays like that, kneeling over Sinbad’s hips and staring unfocus at the spread of his open hand braced at Sinbad’s chest; then there’s motion under his palm, the shift of Sinbad dragging a breath into his lungs, and Ja’far looks up to meet the shadow of Sinbad’s eyes as the other speaks in a tone as dark and endless as one of his Djinn Equips.

“Ja’far,” Sinbad says, and Ja’far’s whole body tightens in answer to that tone, responding as if urged to pleasure even with his orgasm still hot against the other’s chest. Sinbad pulls at the ropes around his wrists, straining until Ja’far can hear the frame of the bed creak protest with the force; beneath Ja’far his hips tilt up, questing for friction he can’t find by his own action. “ _Move_.”

There is a satisfaction to be gained, at times, by refusing one of Sinbad’s orders, by offering stubborn resistance to a man accustomed to finding the world on its knees to him just for the asking. This is not one of those times. Ja’far moves, immediately, tilting his weight forward against his bracing hand so he can slide up before pressing back down onto Sinbad’s cock, and Sinbad’s lashes fall to shadow the force of his gaze, his chest flexes to give up the strain of his breathing to a groan. His thighs work under Ja’far’s weight to buck his hips up towards the other, but Ja’far is already letting himself go to press his second hand alongside the first to steady himself for greater motion. He rocks himself up, drawing his weight through a half-stroke before dropping back to sink himself onto Sinbad beneath him, and Sinbad’s head tilts back, his hair tangling beneath him as he draws a heat-heavy breath into his lungs. Ja’far’s skin prickles hot, as if it’s borrowing Sinbad’s arousal from the sound of it at his lips, or as if his own aftershocks are yet quivering lingering pleasure through him, and then Sinbad’s spine arches, his thighs flex, and he groans past his teeth as he bucks up to ride out the force of his orgasm against Ja’far over him. Ja’far’s knees tighten, his breath spills from him with the force of Sinbad’s motion, and against the bed Sinbad falls slack, dropping to languid relaxation with just the jolting waves of aftershocks to tense him to reflexive heat beneath Ja’far.

Ja’far takes a long moment to collect himself after Sinbad’s own completion. His heart is racing with exertion and pleasure and satisfaction all together, and for the first several seconds his legs are shaking too badly for him to even contemplate supporting his own weight over them. When he finally does move it’s with care, pressing hard at Sinbad’s chest to steady himself with his arms as he flexes his thighs free of their tension; Sinbad groans as Ja’far draws free of his cock, but Ja’far is left breathless by the drag of friction and the dull ache of absence in place of the overfull heat that he has been savoring. He kneels over Sinbad’s hips for another span, breathing deep and willing the tremors in his body to ease, before he lifts his head and reaches to turn his attention to the cords holding Sinbad’s arms in place over him.

Sinbad doesn’t move at all as Ja’far is loosening the cords. His eyes are shut, his lashes lying heavy across his cheeks; Ja’far would think him asleep, if he didn’t know better than to trust the obvious conclusion when it comes to Sinbad. He frees the knots entirely before unwinding the cord from where it is bound tight around Sinbad’s forearms; even then Sinbad doesn’t try to pull free, just lies as calm and content as if his position is his own doing rather than Ja’far’s. Ja’far strips the last of the cords loose, leaving the crimson rope to puddle against the sheets of the bed, and it’s only then that Sinbad extends his arms one at a time over his head, stretching luxuriously against the bed beneath him as his lashes lift to turn the dark of his gaze on Ja’far.

“That was fun,” he says. His voice is deep with the effect of pleasure; Ja’far tries and mostly fails to keep from shivering in response to the sound in Sinbad’s chest. “You do have good ideas, you know, Ja’far.”

“I am your advisor,” Ja’far tells Sinbad with as much sarcasm as he can fit on his words. “I would hope at least some of my suggestions are tolerable to your majesty.”

“They are,” Sinbad says, with far less mockery than what Ja’far put on his own speech. He braces an elbow at the sheets and pushes to sit up as he gives Ja’far a smile as slow and dark as the sound of his voice. “Tell me, oh wise one.” He lifts his hand to touch against Ja’far’s waist, wandering his fingers along the sweat-heat of the other’s skin as if he’s admiring a work of art. “What do you advise I do now?”

Ja’far looks down at Sinbad sprawling beneath him in the full appearance of a king reclining into utmost comfort. The fact of his still-bound feet factors no more than Ja’far’s weight ostensibly pinning him down; he is flushed with pleasure and smiling warm with satisfaction as he watches his fingers trail over Ja’far’s skin. Ja’far would like to be irritated with him, to scowl and frown himself into frustration with the arrogant self-assurance that Sinbad bears so naturally; but his own heart is still pounding, and his cheeks are still flushed, and at the moment all he can do is follow Sinbad’s example in selfish indulgence.

“That’s easy,” Ja’far says. “Kiss me, Sin-sama.” Sinbad looks up to him, his dark lashes lifting as he considers Ja’far over him; and then he laughs, and Ja’far smiles, and Sinbad reaches up to close his hand at the back of Ja’far’s head and draw him down into immediate obedience.


End file.
